


Butterfly

by Drusilla_951



Category: Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Classical Music, Episode Related, Episode: s01e20 Barbarians at the Planet, Friendship, Gen, Internal Conflict, Marriage Proposal, Musical References, Operas, Paris (City), World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 13:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20601665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drusilla_951/pseuds/Drusilla_951
Summary: An unexpected encounter during Lois’s night at the Opera with Lex pushes her towards some self-awareness and leads to a revelation for Clark.This story takes place between Act Three and Act Four in ‘Barbarians at the Planet’ written by Dan Levine & Deborah Joy LeVine.It’s not necessary to readApril Come He Willbefore, but it adds additional details to the general context.This fic won “Best Mid-Length (51-200kb)” at theKerth Awards 2020.





	Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cuidadora](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cuidadora).

> **Disclaimer: ** No copyright infringement is intended. The characters aren’t mine (except some of the French ones!) and I am just borrowing them for fun, not for profit. All Superman characters and some of the plot details belong to DC Comics, Warner Bros., December 3rd Productions and the Superman franchise.
> 
> A huge thank you to **Cuidadora** for being such an awesome Beta. FYI, I wrote this fic under another pen name, and first posted it on Lois and Clark Fanfic Message Boards.  
Comments are always welcome!
> 
> This fic was nominated in the "Best Mid-Length" and "Best Original Character / Supporting Character Long (11kb+)" categories for the 2020 Kerth Awards.
> 
> **I do NOT consent to have my not-for-profit fanfiction hosted on any third party for-profit app or site.  
**  
If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but archiveofourown or fanfiction.net (or as an URL on tumblr pointing to these archives), it has been reposted without my permission.

_Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, _

_but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you._

Nathaniel Hawthorne

  


“Ethereal, minimalist, zen” were some of the terms Lex had used when speaking about Robert Wilson’s staging of _Madama Butterfly_.

But, in Lois’s eyes, it appeared “ghostly, dry, and vain”.

She already knew the basic outline of the story. Still, to make sense of what was happening on stage, she needed to read the subtitles while the lyrics were sung in Italian. _Subtitles_, indeed! What a joke! The translated captions—fortunately both in French and English—were situated just above the curtain.

So, despite her VIP seating in the Bastille Opera House in Paris, she still had to uncomfortably bend her neck backwards in order to read the subtitles. Despite having one of the best orchestra seats in the theatre, Lois had to alternate glancing between the staged action and the subtitles to understand what these baffling automatons were actually singing. 

Concerned that his escort would mistake their seats for “hoi polloi” ones–as Lex was eager to say in a lofty voice—Lex had smoothly explained to her that their seating, smack dab in the middle of the fifteenth row, was reserved for government ministers, VIPs and select opera patrons. Did Lex really need to highlight their status as opera-goers so complacently? Lois had indeed noticed that all their male neighbors were wearing understated but expensive-looking suits. Each man had a stylishly dressed woman who metaphorically hung on his arm. With a start inwardly, Lois realized that even one of the tiniest of their jewels would have paid her own rent for a year. Anyway, the modern, recently built theatre didn’t have any box circles—tiered circular box seats—unlike the _Opéra Garnier_, the historical opera house commissioned by Emperor Napoleon III and erected during the nineteenth century.

Lois, who had expected red and gold splendor and dressed accordingly in a ‘little black dress’ whose purchase had deflated a huge part of her savings for Tahiti, had been faintly disappointed. She had feared that her burgundy evening dress would be the wrong kind of scarlet against the traditional theatrical crimson. So she had played it safe, and dressed in the deceptive simplicity so favored by French _grands couturiers_ [fashion designers], even if her attire couldn’t claim that distinction. Nevertheless, Lois knew she was filling her dress nicely, in all the way that counted, as proven by the admiring glances she had garnered when Lex guided her to her seat.

Both soprano and tenor voices soared, and the orchestra followed them. Despite her ignorance, Lois knew then that the first Act was nearing its end.

On the stage, Cio-Cio-San—the title-role of _Madama Butterfly_—and her American lover, Lt. Pinkerton, were cooing their love in passionate warbling.

Lois had taken care to refresh her memory the day before, rereading the synopsis of the opera, so she knew that the first part of her ordeal wouldn’t last much longer. The plot was a story of dispossession and estrangement: the abandoned Japanese _geisha_ would have no other resource than self-inflicted death, her “husband” having taken from her both her cherished illusions and the son born to their brief union…

Eagerly awaiting the interval, Lois swallowed her third yawn in a row. Her cheeks absorbed the air without too many ripples. She disguised them further by tipping her head obliquely from Lex; further back than her reading the last caption required. With her reporter’s ingrained observation skills, she was acutely aware of Lex’s scrutiny: let him ignore the tediousness washing over her.

She was truly hoisted with her own petard! Even if Lex already knew she wasn’t the most eager of opera fans, she had let him presume that she liked opera more than she really did. To be entirely truthful with him, she would have had to confess that her whole operatic knowledge comprised a performance of Mozart’s _The Magic Flute_ sung in English that she had seen as a teenager with her father; a performance of Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_; and an evening at the Metropolitan Opera in New York with Verdi’s _A Masked Ball_, quite a few years before.

Lex had actually been quite gracious about her naiveté as an operagoer. Instead of deriding her lack of sophistication, he had been obviously pleased to introduce her to the best that opera had to offer.

And thus, without knowing exactly how she had agreed, Lois had found herself ensconced in Lex’s private plane over the ocean, driven from the _Le Bourget_ airport in a limo to the steps of the _Opéra Bastille_, and seated between the rich and famous, politicians and stars—people she had previously watched on LNN—for a treat she hadn’t known how to decline politely. After all, Lex had persuaded her that he owed her for the time Fuentes had been busy spoiling their _Madama Butterfly_ premiere.

However, a night out at the opera in Metropolis was one thing. Being entertained and wined and dined in Paris was… Lois didn’t exactly know what that entailed. But she felt, somehow, that it committed her further than an evening out in her home town did.

At the time, she had told herself that it meant nothing. That Lex was used to jet-hopping around the world, and that she could at least enjoy it while it lasted… But now, she simply didn’t know.

As she pondered the wisdom of her decision, the audience broke the silence following the last strain of music by applauding energetically.

_One Act down, two to go!_ Lois internalized her relief, and flashed a smile in Lex’s direction. Busy clapping, her companion looked at her with a pleased smile. He seemed really thrilled by their evening.

_He really is handsome_, Lois thought generously, happy to stretch her legs for a bit. The intermission wasn’t very long. A trip to the powder room and a glass of champagne took care of it. There wasn’t much time for conversation either, and it suited Lois just fine. Apart from ‘_bonjour_’, ‘_merci_’ and ‘_comment allez-vous_’? [Hello, Thank you, How are you?]’, her French wasn’t up to any kind of conversation. So she was happy to smile and nod her way in, measuring up the others’ dresses, jewels and wrinkles, and to content herself to be merely as lovely as she could.

The other Acts of _Madama Butterfly_ were pretty much as the first one: singing human beings posing as statues, with their hands extended in spade-like gestures, twisted into half-frozen branches, erring in minimalist landscapes exquisitely lighted.

However, this Japanized Noh theatre austerity was mesmerizing after a while, even if these dark silhouettes that seemed cut out of cardboard shadows had not the slightest resemblance to the drama she had imagined. Gone were the traditional settings. Gone also were the flesh and blood of the drama, the empathy with poor Cio-Cio-San’s plight. Her abandonment of religion and family for the American man who wouldn’t ever consider her as more than a _geisha_—a courtesan passing for a spouse. A woman whose womb would be barely worthy enough to produce the son his American wife—the only one Pinkerton would recognize as such—could not give him. The womb worthy enough to welcome the steel that would end her life.

And so Puccini’s drama ended: three years after her seduction, the abandoned mother gave up her son to the foreign genitor who had come back to claim him, then committed suicide: _Seppuku_ [harakiri].

Fortunately, the staging glossed over the gruesome reality of this form of suicide. Dancing her death, Madama Butterfly folded graciously away and fell to the ground, in slow motion.

Afterwards, Lois could only dimly remember applauding as her neighbors did, putting on her wrap, and following Lex to the top floor of the _Opéra_ building, where a cocktail reception awaited the patrons of the _Opéra_, mingling with the singers of the evening and the direction of the opera house.

****

***

_At least the champagne is fabulous_, Lois thought, sipping her third flute of Louis Roederer’s, then putting her champagne glass on a tray held by an expectant waiter.

The view of the Parisian rooftops and nearby square was also breathtaking.

The panoramic rotund _foyer_ on the top eighth floor of the _Opera Bastille_ allowed the visitors to admire a magnificent view of the neighboring rooftops: far away, Lois recognized Notre Dame Cathedral and the Eiffel Tower silhouetted by light on the nocturnal sky.

The _foyer_ also partly served as a very large corridor leading to the upper floors of the theater; a part of it changed into a private venue when all the less favored members of the audience had left their seats and exited home. There, some dexterous waiters had quickly placed small round tables covered with delicious-looking tidbits for the evening buffet.

The glass façade of the opera house, erected on one side corner of the square, also allowed a plunging view on the illuminated massive column standing at the center of the _Place de la Bastille_ [Bastille Square]. There, the infamous Bastille prison had once stood. Its raiding by revolutionary mobs, on the 14th of July, marked the beginning of the French Revolution. _The fortress had been razed and the stones of the building sold as souvenirs_, Lois dimly remembered. Disdainful of the turbulent history of its location, and brandishing with élan both a burning torch and a broken chain, the golden bronze statue of the Spirit of Freedom standing at the apex of the pillar, sprang up with an ebullient momentum that brought Superman to her mind.

Lois smiled drily to herself, and slowly advanced further; away from the guests, following the curve of the building, along the glass roof and windows rhymed by round massive pillars. Between see-through façade and carpeted path, an inside balcony railing guarded the chasm where massive stairs led from one level to the other. Lois glimpsed absentmindedly over the short rail, noticing that some people had left empty champagne glasses perched precariously on its brim. She picked them up and deposited them on the floor.

She looked over her shoulder, and saw, across the crowd, that Lex was still speaking with the director of the _Opéra_. He was probably still extolling his own ideas for casting _Madama Butterfly_, and regretting that the director couldn’t instead enlist Raina Kabevanka… no!... Kabaivanska, as the title-role. Lois had left the poor man torn between politeness and a vigorous rebuttal of Lex’s obvious disregard for opera star singers’ schedules and availabilities.

Lois was alone. _Great_.

Her spine relaxed, and she became aware of her neck tension only as it faded away.

_How calm the night was! _ she thought delightedly, welcoming the respite. The quietness was enthralling, away from conversations that she could not follow properly, from her lack of both understanding French and expertise of opera matters.

As she walked on, the curve of the building screened Lex and his interlocutors.

However, a few guests had had the same idea: a few people stood talking quietly away from the central gathering, champagne glasses in hand. Among them, a shy-looking dark-haired man wearing heavy-framed glasses was whispering something to an elegant elderly woman, dressed in a stunning pale beige flowing dress, who laughed as discreetly. Both their faces conjured images of glamour, fashion and power.

Lois blinked. _Could it be?_ Another glimpse confirmed that he was indeed Yves Saint-Laurent, the famous Parisian fashion designer. She remembered that the present director of the Paris Opera was a close friend of his.

Not wishing to look as if she were patently staring, Lois advanced further, and reached an even more isolated spot, nearly at the end of the floor.

Her feet made no sound on the grey carpet where woven white squares mirrored the glass square panels in the façade. The black grid-lines stood out on the darker grey marble columns supporting the roof. _The overall effect of the building was indeed impressive_, she thought. Yet, it was as dispiriting as this staging of _Madama Butterfly_ had been. Grand, perhaps, but this symphony of glass, black, greys and whites was also chilling. Lois would hate spending more than one evening in such surroundings…

Abruptly, it reminded Lois of Lex’s penthouse. However, she had no time to reflect on this stray thought, as a faint strain of music disrupted her mounting unease.

Someone was singing.

The whispered tune came from the corner of a recess, in front of the far end view of the _Place de la Bastille_. Actually, the deep male voice came from one of the entrance to the top seats of the arena.

Her curiosity aroused, Lois tiptoed on until the owner of the voice was in view, and she stood there in plain view, transfixed.

Holding her hand in his, a man was kneeling in front of a short-haired brunette woman, singing to her “_Là ci darem la mano_”. When she didn’t respond, he began again, the Mozart melody flowing seductively from his lips.

“_There you’ll give me your hand_,  
_There you'll say yes: _  
_See, it is not far, _  
_Beloved, let us leave from here.” _

How could a man sing Don Juan’s enticing marriage proposal in such a public place? Lois wondered. As she was about to move away, belatedly realizing that she was intruding, the woman answered, speaking in an Italian tinted with an heavily French accent: “_Vorrei e non vorrei… mais, finalement, non! Pas tout de suite, du moins... _ ” [I’d like to, and yet, I would not… but, finally, the answer’s no! Not right now, anyway…]

The reluctant _fiancée_ bent, kissing the man on the top of his head, then, withdrawing her hand, she took a step back, looking at Lois: “_De toute façon, nous ne sommes pas seuls_.” [We’re not alone, anyway.]

The man got on his feet, laughing. “‘_Three’s a charm’, comme on dit en Angleterre !_” [“‘Three’s a charm’, as they say in England!”]

His accent sounded as wonderful in English as it had seemed in Italian.

Feeling herself definitively ‘_de trop_’ [one too many], Lois hastened to say in her mother tongue, hoping they would understand her: “I’m sorry for intruding… I was watching the view and heard you singing _Don Giovanni_. I was curious...” She felt herself blushing.

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman replied, in French-tinged English. “This big oaf had no business proposing to me again tonight!” She chuckled. “His impatience reaped its own reward. I already told him that marriage is something I take very seriously, and—”

“—Said the greatest _single_ expert in the world on being married…” the man added good-humorously, flawlessly interrupting her sentence. He added: “I expect Sandrine will next write a well-read opinion column about it in _Le Monde_, and will enlighten us poor ignoramuses with her wisdom.”

“I told you I needed time!” retorted the woman the baritone had called Sandrine.

Before the couple’s disagreement could escalate into a fight, Lois hastened to ask her, “Are you a reporter? Do you write for _Le Monde_?”

“_Non_, to both questions,” was the good humored reply. “But I _do_ know who you are.”

Lois’s pleasure at having her work recognized even in France faded as Sandrine added, “I saw you on TV during Nightfall, Miss Lane.”

_Oh, God! _ Lois cringed and prepared herself being asked if Superman was a good kisser. That was usually what came next. _What had taken hold of her when she had flown into his arms?_ She pushed her inner rhetorical question aside: she knew full well what had taken hold of her. The less said the better. Even to herself.

“No need to be embarrassed!” Hoping to mollify the situation, Sandrine swallowed her giggles. “You probably made most women on Earth green with jealousy! How did you manage to get so close to Superman? Do you know him that well?”

_Not that well_, prompted Lois’s brain. _Not that well at all_.

She blushed again, as the memory of their last meeting sprung into her mind. Fortunately, Sandrine’s companion… _fiancé_… whatever… took pity on her.

“Don’t pay any attention to her, it goes with her job. ‘Nosy’ would be Sandrine’s professional middle name, if she had one. I was told she kept asking the most nitpicking questions when she worked here.”

“Oh?” Lois said, feeling quite glad for the change of topic.

“My name is Sandrine Demazières, and I’m a documentarian,” the petite woman explained. “I canned my last rushes today. I’ve filmed snippets of the rehearsals and premiere of _Madame Butterfly_, but I did focus on the little less known occupations taking place backstage, ensuring the curtain will rise on time. You know, designers, costumers, make-up artists, scene shifters and so on.”

“Every single one of them, except us poor neglected singers…” added the man in a mournful tone.

“Neglected, my foot! The limelight is usually right on you.”

As an afterthought, Sandrine added for Lois’s benefit: “You may not have recognized him without all that white paint on his face, but Stéphane Courtois here sang Sharpless.”

Sharpless, the American Consul who tried to warn poor Cio-Cio-San of her lover’s desertion. A short role, but that the baritone had imbued with a tenderness and a care that contrasted sharply with the unemotional staging.

“Pleased to meet you,” Lois told him, as they ceremoniously shook hands.

“Limelight is quite a strong word…” contemplated Lois aloud, rebounding on Sandrine’s previous assertion.

“Badmouthing Bob’s… I mean, Master Wilson’s celebrated staging? How refreshing!” Stéphane said.

“I didn’t mean…” Lois backpedaled, internally quailing. _Had she given away that she was an operatic rookie? _

“No, no, don’t worry! We are here between friends. I concede that _Madama Butterfly_ may not be the right opera for such a staged approach. It’s somewhat stifling, but working with Wilson is a fascinating process. Operagoers usually rave about his productions; his _Magic Flute_ is undeniably fabulous, and…”

Lois’s face must have betrayed her complete bafflement, and Stéphane’s sentence dwindled away.

He asked, more cautiously: “You _have_ heard about Mozart’s _The Magic Flute_, haven’t you?”

Feeling like an idiot, Lois acquiesced, adding, “I heard it once. I’m not an expert on opera, you know. I came with a friend who is a keen operagoer.”

“Oh, I see…” Sandrine said. “Is Clark with you?”

“Clark?” “Kent?” chorused Lois and Stéphane, their duet diverging to “Your Kansas friend?” from Stéphane, while Lois exclaimed: “You know Clark Kent?”

Sandrine nodded to the both of them, clarifying to Lois, “Clark Kent gave me the best advice I ever heard in my profession: ‘Helicopters and Mozart don’t go together’.”

At Lois’s bewildered look, she burst out laughing. “A private joke, I’m afraid! As a matter of fact, I met Clark waaaaay back when I was a filmmaker student at the _Fémis_… My first celebrated tracking shot was filmed through the window of his _chambre de bonne_, his small one-room apartment. We’ve kept in touch, and I knew he partnered you at the _Daily Planet_. So, I’m afraid I wasn’t totally honest a few minutes ago.” Her voice suddenly turned serious. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I know it hit Clark very hard.”

Lois swallowed. “Thank you. It was—it’s… still raw.”

“How is Clark coping, by the way? I’m afraid I was so taken up with my current documentary that I’m quite late writing back to him…”

“Err… fine, I guess. Fine.” Belying her words, Lois’s tone conveyed a complete lack of confidence.

Sandrine looked at her with sharp interest, and Lois lowered her eyes, feeling suddenly awkward. To cover her embarrassment, she volunteered: “Clark didn’t accept my offer to work with me at _LNN_, so we don’t see each other as often as we did. But I expect to meet him tomorrow night, at our old boss’s retirement dinner.”

“I… see,” uttered Sandrine thoughtfully. She darted another disconcerting look at Lois.

“_LNN_?” inquired Stéphane.

“_Luthor News Network_. Lex Luthor offered me a job there.” Something pressed on her traitorous tongue and Lois specified: “It’s good, exciting work.”

Hearing herself parroting what she had told Clark on that infamous morning, Lois wanted to swallow it. Hearing or reminiscing about Clark usually unlocked a can of worms best left hermetically sealed; regrets, aching loss, faint remorse and fit of anger simmered there.

“Ah! I’m glad you find it so,” Stéphane courteously said, while Sandrine frowned: “You know Lex Luthor personally, then?”

“I do. He has proposed to me,” said Lois, surprising herself further in blurting her private business to complete strangers.

A short silence followed her statement. A pause as icy as their surroundings.

Jumping into the frozen gap with gracious chit-chat, Stéphane turned to his presumed _fiancée_: “_Hé_ [Hey], Sandrine, didn’t _LexArts_ fund your first feature film?”

“Not all of it. _Avance sur recettes_ [advance] paid the main part,” Sandrine rectified. The reminder of _LexArts_’ sponsorship didn’t seem to please her that much, Lois noticed. Why not? A young beginner should have been elated to have such a backing.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen your movie…” Lois felt obliged to say, dearly hoping that the conversation wouldn’t turn on it. One thing she wasn’t keen to do was to dissertate on French art cinema. The thought that, in a few weeks’ times, she may have to play the gracious hostess and keep such conversations going in Lex’s society parties made her blood freeze with anticipated boredom.

“Don’t apologize. Only a few art theaters would show it in the States…” She shook her head lightly. “I’m not really a film director at heart, rather a documentarian,” Sandrine added, noticing that Lois lightened up at her near escape. “_Perte_ [Loss] may have been my big break, but it mirrors a time in my life that I’m not so eager to scrutinize anymore.”

The couple exchanged meaningful glances, and Stéphane moved closer to the young woman, as if comforting her. Sandrine took him lightly by the arm, and smiled up at him. Suddenly, some kind of invisible energy, some kind of harmony, seemed to flow round them, excluding Lois. Unbidden, a sharp prick of jealousy stabbed her.

_When had she last enjoyed such a natural rapport?_ A vivid image of Clark Kent superimposed on her mind, and Lois had to make a conscious effort to dismiss these memories. _No parallel could be drawn between ‘Lane & Kent, the hottest team in town’—as Cat Grant had mockingly dubbed them—and her actual French interlocutors. For once, they had entirely different jobs. Besides, Sandrine had obviously been declining Stéphane’s proposals on several occasions, while Clark hadn’t even—_

The flow of her thoughts stopped abruptly as she remembered “The Scene in the Park”. She felt as if her heart had stopped pumping blood for a few seconds.

“Are you all right?” Sandrine’s voice invaded her consciousness. “You turned quite white all of a sudden.”

“Do you need to sit down?” echoed Stéphane. Lois saw that he was scanning their surroundings, looking for an appropriate seating.

“I’ll take care of that,” another male voice asserted from behind. “Lois, my dear, have you eaten enough? We may go now, if you’d rather go someplace else.”

Lois turned, and saw that Lex was standing a few feet away behind her. Obviously, Sandrine and Stéphane had been as engrossed as she had been in their conversation: they were looking as startled as she felt by Lex’s sudden entrance.

_What had Lex heard?_ Lois wondered, somehow nonplussed by his sudden intervention.

The short pause had nevertheless allowed her to regain her composure, so she could tell Lex with perfect truth that she felt absolutely fine.

“Lex, I was just staggered by the wide reach of your interests,” she glibly explained. “I’d no idea that you also funded movies.”

He looked searchingly at her for a second, then, looking satisfied, explained: “As you already know, I’ve always sponsored up and coming young women.” He smiled complacently. “Why should I exempt the arts? After all, one cannot live merely for business…”

“I cannot say otherwise,” Sandrine piped in.

“You can’t, _Mademoiselle_ Demazières, even if you touched on it in your latest documentary.”

_Was it sarcasm lurking behind Lex’s polite small talk?_ Lois puzzled; yet she had no time to dwell on it, as Lex went on: “So, _mademoiselle_, are you here tonight to investigate the _Opéra de Paris_’s unions?”

“_Non, Monsieur_ Luthor, merely documenting the evolution of centuries-long traditions and jobs towards the Twenty-first Century, in a very modern theatre building.”

Lex smiled. “So you’re not that set against modernization, are you? I feared you might be.”

Stéphane looked faintly surprised as the woman he obviously hoped one day to marry replied more earnestly than a cocktail evening conversation warranted: “As long as it isn’t implemented for its own sake, and doesn’t trample on people, why should I?”

Somehow, Lois felt there was a hidden meaning behind their words.

Lex smiled charmingly, smoothly remarking: “I shall remember that, _mademoiselle_. And will diligently watch your latest documentary.”

“I’m afraid my film about the _Opéra_ will be only shown on TV, as it was commissioned by _France 3_ [A French public television channel].”

_Was dryness underlining Sandrine’s assertion?_ Lois looked at Lex, but whatever had prompted his query was absent from his demeanor.

Sandrine contented herself to watch him with a slight smile. “I guess that you’d label my _Prêt à jeter_ [Fit for the bin / Throwaway product] documentary a political or a business statement. It’ll premiere at a festival in a few months.” She glanced at Lois, including her in the conversation: “With it, I was trying to point out the evils of built-in obsolescence in most manufactured goods. Surely, one must admit that it creates waste and pollution, and squanders natural resources.”

Sandrine searched Lois’s eyes and found approval there. She also recognized from the reporter’s fleeting expression that Lois was impressed with Sandrine’s varied interests.

“Built-in obsolescence also results in more consumers’ spending,” Lex owned up, very openly. “Surely, _mademoiselle_, you should also concede that there is an obvious rationale in this. Besides, a democracy has to ensure that people spend as much as they wish to.”

Lois opened her mouth, but Lex beat her to it. He grinned beguilingly at her, clarifying: “My dear, it takes some times to implement changes, and _LexCorps_ does uphold the fine balance between environment rights and the necessities of business.” He sighed. “Alas, some of the companies I acquired implemented changes more or less rapidly...”

No one seemed in the mood to dispute this point.

Frantically trying to find a more congenial subject of discussion, Lois asked Sandrine, “What will your next project be? Another one about the performing arts?”

“I’m not sure…” answered Sandrine. “I may focus instead on the social movement at the paper mill factory in Sainte-Marie-de-Tarnosse.”

Before Lois’s obvious lack of reaction, she elaborated: “It’s a small factory situated in the _Landes_, in the South-Western France. There are forests of pines in the area and it’s one of the main sources of jobs in the region. The factory was bought a year ago by an American consortium that decided to close it down, because it is too small.”

Lois hazarded a guess: “Not profitable enough?”

“That’s right.” Sandrine sighed. “The same old story… There are merely three-hundred workers in the site, but more than a thousand jobs are impacted by this shutting-down: farmers, foresters, woodcutters… Many working in the same trade from fathers to sons…” She grimaced. “I was visiting friends in Dax, not far away from the site, when I heard that mayors of the surrounding cities and villages, along with the population and defenders of the factory, planned a huge street protest on the day the board of directors met.”

Lex’s right hand, encircling Lois’s left arm, briefly tightened. She surreptitiously glanced up at him behind her own shoulder, but his face wore his usual attentive, faintly smiling social mask.

Sandrine shrugged. “On that day, everyone agreed to make the city a “_ville morte_” [ghost town] So I—”

“—grabbed her camcorder and went to investigate,” supplied Stéphane, with a long-suffering tone which underlined that it was not the first time Sandrine had done so.

“Stéphane there is still grumbling that I left him dangling in the middle of a _Monopoly_ game that he was winning…”

Sandrine’s face turned serious. “3.500 protesters showed up in the factory. Shops and schools closed down; even the schoolchildren joined the march. The protest was so successful that the directors had to accept what the unions wanted: an independent accounting firm is currently analyzing if the factory can be saved. While I was there, I interviewed many protesters. I’m thinking to include them into a larger documentary focused on the traditional jobs of the area.”

Obviously amused by her own enthusiasm, Sandrine added: “You see, I’m interested in the lives of everyday people; their dreams, their way of life, their traditions. _Per se_, I don’t really want to focus about the shutting down of the factory, but on the effect it may have locally.” She went on, after a short pause. “Surely, Miss Lane, this isn’t that different from some of your investigations at the _Daily Planet_.”

All of a sudden, the faces of her former co-employees at the _Planet_ sprang up in Lois’s mind. Myerson’s worry for his mortgage; Jack’s flippant remarks masking his anguish for his brother’s fate; Jimmy’s—_but how come she hadn’t kept in touch with Jimmy? She had promised herself she would. The days had sped, and somehow, she hadn’t found the time_. She reminded herself to call him, when she would be back in Metropolis. 

Her new found resolution was distracted by Lex’s faintly ironic question: “_Monsieur_ Courtois, have you also such an interest in unions and factories?”

Stéphane laughed openly and said easily: “I don’t! An opera singer’s job is a solitary and itinerant one, as you well know... Few theatres nowadays employ a company of singers. So, I spend most of the year on the roads, and trying to fit new contracts into my existing schedule.”

“The survival of the fittest?”

“Rather the hiring of the loudest, as my little sister used to joke!—”

“—or the mere acknowledgement and hiring of talent,” Sandrine slipped in.

“Ah! Talent…” Lex mused. “A subjective, changeling thing, that; as Shakespeare used to say, ‘_All the world's a stage, And one man in his time plays many parts’…_”

“But somehow talent is recognized by casting directors and reviewers. Stéphane will sing Papageno at the _Aix-en-Provence_ Festival in two years’ time,” Sandrine proudly announced.

“Papageno? A well-enough role, I suppose,” Lex dismissed.

“A character beloved by the audience and Mozart himself!” Sandrine insisted. “_The Magic Flute_ is a sophisticated opera, for all its folkish and fairy tale undertones.”

The bird-catcher, companion to Prince Tamino in his quest for the abducted Princess Pamina, was also the embodiment of the common man, content with his simple, merry life, hoping for a wife and children, Lois remembered. Assuredly, such a deceptively simple character would not appeal to Lex’s refined tastes.

“Maybe so. However, Don Giovanni [Don Juan] is much more to my taste”, Lex continued. “A man of spirit and might, fearless of God and men. An aristocrat to the last.”

“I agree.” Stéphane said, “Yet, if I could, I’d rather sing Don Ottavio… The role is a marvelous vehicle for a tenor: a perfect lover, gentle and attentive…”

Lex sneered. “Surely, you cannot compare this ineffective milksop with the magnificent hero of Mozart’s opera? All talk—well, song!—and no action!”

Despite his courtesy, Stéphane didn’t yield an inch: “As only the statue of _Il Commendatore_ is to punish Don Juan at the end, dragging him into Hell, of course, poor Don Ottavio arrives too late to arrest Don Giovanni. But he does so while following the rules, ensuring that Don Giovanni truly assaulted Donna Anna and killed her father… And then, by going to the authorities.”

“The perfect citizen, is he?” Lex deprecatingly countered. “How dull! Don Giovanni cannot be held down by rules. They are not made for the likes of him!”

“Yet, he is vanquished at the end.”

“This is fiction, _Monsieur_ Courtois. Reality is quite different.” Lois’s ears perked. _For a second, was there something darkly triumphant in Lex’s voice?_ “And surely, you cannot deny that a moving and talking statue is highly unlikely.”

“Who knows? A few months ago, few people would have wagered on a flying man!” countered Stéphane.

Lex’s smile was still in evidence, but it was showing more strain.

Coming to Lex’s help, Lois mused aloud: “In College, our teacher told us that the coming of the statue was a metaphor for Don Juan’s suicide and not to be taken literally. And that the statue was also a metaphor for the murdered man coming back to haunt his murderer.”

“I’ve been told the same: Don Juan knows that the game is finished and that he is about to be arrested, so…” nodded Sandrine in agreement. She suddenly chuckled. “But I find the old fairy tale ending much more fun! It’s thrilling to watch the Statue enter the room, slowly, oh so slowly, and grab Don Juan’s hand! Almost like your Halloween, I suppose…” Obviously relishing the thought, she added: “And, for once, the main female characters have the upper hand at the end! No dying for them! I’ve had my fill of women victimized and suicided and oppressed in music!”

Stéphane snorted. “Ah! Your old complaint about male chauvinist pigs writing the opera librettos! I wondered when you were about to mention it…”

Sandrine sent him a half-mischievous half-aggravated glance, and replied generously: “I’m not accusing _you_! Besides, with your voice, you’re doomed to sing moralizing fathers, cuckolds, best friends and confidents!—”

“—and Don Giovanni…” suggested Lex smoothly. “But I don’t quite imagine _Monsieur_ Courtois tailored for this character!” His tone showed that the idea sounded absolutely ludicrous to him. “I take it you don’t approve Madama Butterfly’s end?”

_Why was Lex pressing his point?_ Lois wondered. His insistence was bordering on rudeness: surely, he knew by now that the feminist-minded _Mademoiselle_Demazières would strongly object to the Geisha’s suicide.

“How could I?” Sandrine hotly questioned.

“Thus easily dismissing in one sentence a centuries-long tradition of restoring honor to oneself? Really!” Choosing to misunderstand willfully Sandrine’s reticence, Lex added easily: “Unless you object to a weak female distorting such an honorable exit?”

_Mischievous teasing or not, enough was enough!_ Lois entered the fray: “Honorable? Miss Demazières is right! Butterfly should have fought back and kept her son and her life, instead of wielding everything to a—a—”

With a show of concern, Lex turned to his companion. “My dear Lois, your usually perfect command of English leaves something to be desired. Shall we blame hunger for your lapse?” For Sandrine’s and Stéphane’s benefit, he announced more drily: “We’ll be late at _La Tour d’Argent_ [a [very chic restaurant](https://tourdargent.com/en/)] if we delay much longer. A private dining room is waiting for us.”

He nodded regally to the French couple, thus ending the conversation.

Before Lois could properly make her good-byes, she was adroitly whisked away from her new acquaintances, and _en route_ to the promised culinary treat.

****

***

Sandrine didn’t reach her apartment till two in the morning, after three aborted leave-takings from Stéphane interlaced with kisses and a promise that they would meet on the morrow for a late brunch.

She felt weary and yet, curiously alert. Rewinding the events of the evening as she would do a movie, her mind kept playing out some scraps of the very… interesting… conversation that had taken place with Luthor and Lois Lane.

Lois Lane…

Since Clark had joined _The Daily Planet_, Sandrine had bought issues of the newspapers, eager to read the work of the star reporter Clark admired so much and to keep track with her friend’s work. Indeed, Lane was good. Her writing showed obstinacy in her various quests, hard-hitting quality and a dazzling energy that many of her colleagues would be inspired to emulate. However, Sandrine admitted she much preferred the articles published under the ‘Lane & Kent’ byline. Clark’s compassionate accuracy and Lois’s hard-hitting punch balanced themselves perfectly.

Not that Clark wasn’t a fantastic writer. Sandrine recalled that even in 1991 he had shown more than great promise; he had delivered results. At the time, her ‘American brother’ was an unknown freelance writer looking for a permanent job; she was an aspiring documentarist. They had both realized their goals, and their friendship had flourished in the following years, after an unfortunate hiatus brought by a misunderstanding…

Nevertheless, there was one crossed signal Sandrine hadn’t been eager to smooth. It had taken years, but Sandrine had finally guessed that her friend was also known as Superman; still, she hadn’t disclosed her knowledge to him. What use would it serve, apart from worrying him? Yet, in her epiphany, Sandrine had guessed that Clark had left France because he feared discovery, not because he wanted to break all ties with her. This was all that mattered. Her other questions, Sandrine smothered them along with all her suppositions, knowing that they wouldn’t be answered for a while. If ever.

But tonight was another night. Worry creasing her brow, she slumped in her couch, playing with her address book, opening and closing it at the “K” page.

She checked her wrist watch and, at last, heaving a great sigh, dialed Clark’s number. It was about 9 P. M. in Metropolis. It would have to do. Besides, barring any Superman emergency, Clark should be home, she hoped.

He was.

Two rings and three heartbeats later, a faraway “Clark Kent here!” sounded in Sandrine’s ear.

“Clark! _C’est Sandrine !_ [Sandrine speaking.]”

“Sandrine! Are you all right?”

“I am, don’t worry. Just a little mishap.” She willingly accentuated her English accent, blurring her speech and introducing French words and various Gallicisms, hoping that Clark would pick up the clue. “Clark, I am caélling becauze you tolds me that ye can gives to me ze _adresse_ of Schwarzy-El, that waz so much help when I went _Rue de Rivoli… Je_ [I] really _ai besoin_ [need] to see him _absolument_ [absolutely] very speedily and I misplaced his unlisted _numéro de telephone_ [phone number].”

“Oh.” Clark went on in French: “Do you need it right now?”

“Have you lost it, too?” Sandrine replied in kind. “_Zut ! _ [Darn it!] I wanted to contact him in the morning. My old address book went to pieces before I could recopy all of it…”

“And, as usual, you need me as a secretary.”

“Why, Clark! Don’t you want to be on the receiving end of lavish acknowledgments in my next documentary?”

“In very small print, at the very end of the credits? The kind that no one ever reads? Sorry, Sandrine, I’m not losing sleep over it! But you won’t be able to say that I’m not a nice guy. Hold the line, please.”

Sandrine heard some shuffling on the other end, then Clark’s went back online. “I’ve got it.” 

He then proceeded to give her Nathalie Baron’s phone number; knowing that Sandrine already had it.

_Ouiiiii ! _ [Yeeeesss!] _He got it! _ Sandrine thought delightedly.

Nathalie was one of her two roommates from her student’s years. They had kept in touch, and she knew that Nathalie was abroad on some assignment with her archeologist husband. Any caller would end up with an answering machine. Clark was perfectly aware of it: Sandrine had written to him with Nathalie’s news a month ago…

She ended up the call with profuse thanks, and hung up. Sandrine settled more comfortably into her couch, wondering how much time would pass before Superman showed up.

****

***

A tell-tale whoosh heralded Superman’s entrance into Sandrine’s flat. He was flying so fast that his silhouette was a blur before his red boots touched her carpet.

The French-window leading to her narrow balcony stood open. She had dimmed the lighting in her sitting room, leaving only one small light on. Fortunately, Sandrine lived on the top floor of a 1950s residence, her windows facing a blank wall, at the back of a private residential garden. No one would spot the superhero’s landing, so late at night.

As soon as he arrived, Superman went to her window, hastily closing it and drawing the curtains shut.

“It’s okay, Superman,” Sandrine blurted out, springing to her feet. “No nosy neighbors saw you. My downstairs neighbor is away…”

“I made sure of that, _mademoiselle_. I’d rather leave the ‘_Superman’s Secret Tryst in Paris_’ headlines to the imagination of the American rags,” he began, in perfectly fluent French.

“_Oh, mon Dieu!_ I didn’t think of that at all when I phoned Clark! I’m truly sorry…” Sandrine apologized in the same language. “But it was kind of an emergency. I didn’t want to speak openly to Clark on the phone about it…”

For a second, the superhero looked worried, before his face resumed a polite and bland smoothness.

“Won’t you sit down? It may take a while…” Sandrine offered, showing the couch, and sitting back.

As he did so, he threw the folds of his cape back with a practiced gesture. _Like Rudolf Valentino’s_, assessed Sandrine irrelevantly. _All these classic movies have finally been of some use to Clark. _

She looked at her friend with a critical eye. Even up close, no one would easily superimpose a smiling and friendly Clark Kent on the usually terse and statuesque Superman.

Again, she wondered how Clark had managed the deception: had he taken theatrical training in the years between his Parisian months and his world wanderings? Maybe he had. There was a world, even a galaxy, between Superman’s mannerisms and Clark’s body language. What was reality? What was make-believe? Sandrine dearly hoped Clark was the reality; she was too fond of her friend to wish otherwise. Still, now was not the right time for that, and she brushed her curiosity aside.

“First of all, I want to thank you. You saved my life, all those years ago, when I was mugged on the _Rue de Rivoli_…”

Superman’s eyes twinkled. “It would be useless to deny it, now. What gave me away?”

“Your feet.”

Artlessly, Superman stole a glance at his red boots. Sandrine giggled. “There’s nothing wrong with them! But, at the time, they weren’t quite touching the ground… Being flat on the pavement gives one a very good observation post!”

“I see.”

“Don’t worry, I only sort of told Clark… and he thought I was bonkers when I nicknamed my masked “guardian angel” Schwarzy-El! I gather he changed his mind about my story when he saw you lifting Space Station Prometheus!”

Superman’s _humph_-ed, without committing himself, and she smothered a smile. _Trust Clark to keep sticking to the truth! _

Coming at last to the point, Sandrine stated: “I met Miss Lane tonight, at the _Opéra_. Lex Luthor was with her.”

Without changing his posture, a different rigidity spread through Superman’s frame. Still, he said nothing.

In a few sentences, Sandrine summarized the circumstances and their exchanges with Luthor and Lane, adding: “Something didn’t please me at all…” She swallowed hard. “In fact, it rather alarmed me…”

Superman looked at her hands, and she realized that they were clenched so hard the knuckles showed white.

“Well, Luthor made a point to insist on my involvement with unions… That isn’t a topic one generally touches upon at a _soirée_ [evening party] at the _Opéra_… He also mentioned ‘business’, which was logical, as my previous documentary is about built-in obsolescence. But it has nothing to do with unions…”

Sandrine raised her eyes. They were troubled. “Luthor also mentioned my ‘latest documentary’ which was, as he was seemingly aware, not my _Opéra de Paris_ current project, but an tentative, in-progress enquiry about the closing-down of a paper mill factory in Sainte-Marie-de-Tarnosse… Yet, only Stéphane—he’s my _fiancé_, by the way!—and the people involved in the protest knew I was interested in it.”

With an effort, she unknotted her hands. “You see, afterwards, I accidentally found out that the owner of _American Papers_ that bought the factory was… _Lex Investments_: at least, that was what the Mayor of Sainte-Marie-de-Tarnosse told me when I interviewed him…”

Superman bent forward, his stiffness gone in his alertness. “_Lex Investments_ is a subsidiary company of _LexCorps_.”

She looked straight into his almond-shaped eyes. “I’m aware of that. Still, I didn’t see why I couldn’t mention my in-progress documentary to Luthor. Abstaining to do so would have seemed more… suspicious.” Sandrine shrugged. “Actually, I’m not even sure the topic will turn into a proper documentary. One has got to find funding for that… Whatever comes of it, I filmed some material, because I was on the spot.”

“You believe that Lex Luthor was informed of your presence and your actions there.”

“Oui. However farfetched and improbable that is! I mean, I’m a nobody—”

“—You’re too modest, _Mademoiselle_ Demazières.”

“I mean… Gathering rushes of the street protest and interviews of the families of the workers hardly merits some… report to the CEO in the States! And they must have done so for Luthor to be aware of my presence there.”

He hesitated. “There were probably camera crews of the local channel covering the protest. There was nothing out of the ordinary in a local news story such as this. But you were an unknown quantity…”

Again, Sandrine marveled at people accepting indiscriminately his knowledge of Earth customs and mores.

“I’m not making a mountain out of a molehill,” she insisted. “There’s something else, and it concerns Clark Kent.”

Superman raised his head sharply. “Clark Kent?”

“_Oui_. When we first met Lois, she was alone, and she mentioned that she came at the _Opéra_ with a friend who was more knowledgeable about opera than she was. I’m afraid I jumped the gun and thought that—her companion was… Clark.”

“Clark?” echoed Superman cautiously.

_Fib fast, Sandrine_…. she admonished herself. _Telling Clark that she had believed that he-as-Superman had taken Lois to the Opéra was not an option. _

“Errr… Clark told me in his last letter that I would see him sooner than I expected, when I told him about Stéphane’s contract to sing in _Madama Butterfly_. He really was interested and I hoped to introduce my soon-to-be fiancé to my best friend for the occasion… As Clark often reports your news, I sort of thought you did him and Miss Lane a favor and flew them here…”

Even to her ears, her explanation ringed empty. Fortunately, Superman let it go at that, with a sharp look at her. The corners of his mouth went fractionally up before they resumed their usual impassive line.

_Okay… Here it goes. He knows that I know, and I know that he knows that I know, but we’ll go on pretending… Ohh, ‘what a tangled web we weave…’ as the Bard said. _

“And?” queried Clark-Superman, breaking into her agitated thoughts.

“Luthor burst into our conversation… but I don’t know when he first arrived—what he may have heard before he spoke to us. We just didn’t pay attention. He may have heard me mention Clark.” Sandrine bit her lip. “From what Clark wrote to me, I imagine there isn’t any lost love between them.”

He didn’t react to her last sentence. “You believe that Luthor may have connected you to Clark.”

“And that he imagined that there is a—conspiracy, a—a plot against him or something… and that he might strike back. He is that kind of man. He made it abundantly clear.” She shuddered. “I don’t like the man. All along, he was like a smiling barracuda, aiming for the kill.”

“An apt simile.”

She raised hopeful eyes on him. “Then, you’ll tell Clark to be cautious?”

_Oh! Away with restraint and subtext and whatnot!_ Sandrine took the plunge and insisted: “For his sake and Lois’s. She was plainly very put out when Luthor sneaked up on us. And his attitude was—”

She searched for the right words while Superman waited with rapt attention. “—disturbing. Not tastelessly dismissive, but making it quite obvious that she was out of her depth. He very effectively extracted her from the situation when she was about to disagree with him.”

Superman’s eyes flashed anger, and Sandrine hastily specified: “Not violently; Luthor is much more sophisticated than that. The maneuver was done very efficiently and graciously, but still… This Lois Lane wasn’t the woman I expected from reading Clark’s letters. I’m worried.”

“Are you?”

Sandrine moved closer and put her hand on his. “I _do_ care for Clark. He’s more than a friend; he’s the brother I never had. And he obviously cares _a lot_ about Lois Lane. So, _oui, évidemment_ [of course], I’m worried about Lois. Something’s deadly wrong.”

Clark-Superman disentangled his hand, holding it a moment longer than their officially passing acquaintance justified, then rose.

“I’ll pass on your message to Clark. Don’t worry, _mademoiselle_. I’m keeping a close eye on Luthor.”

He took a few steps toward the French windows, signaling the end of their conversation. “Your information about Sainte-Marie-de-Tarnosse will be of deep interest to Clark and his reporter friends. They are currently trying to unravel Luthor’s web of nominee shareholder companies, front men, tax havens and insurance frauds. This might prove an interesting clue.”

“As long as they proceed cautiously…”

“The same should apply to you. It would be wise to put your project on the back burner for the time being.”

“That’s what Stéphane also said,” Sandrine pouted. “He didn’t like this conversation any more than I do.”

About to reopen the curtains, the superhero paused and looked pointedly at her.

“Oh, all right, I will.” 

From his look, he still wasn’t satisfied.

After some thought, she reluctantly acquiesced: “_Croix de bois, croix de fer, si je mens, je vais en enfer!_ [Cross my heart and hope to die. Literally: ‘Wooden Cross, Iron Cross, If I’m lying, I’ll go to Hell’]” Suddenly, she laughed out and intoned theatrically: “Ladies and Gentlemen, thus ends our Friday Night Special on the theme of Don Juan!”

A hint of a smile on his face, Superman took off.

As a little dot reached the horizon, she whispered: “Clark, _prends garde à toi! S’il te plait…_ [Watch out! Please…]”

****

***

11 P.M. Back in Metropolis, Lois checked her kitchen clock and regretfully poured her fresh coffee cup into her sink. She craved something hot to drink and knew that if she drank her cup, sleep would evade her for the most part of the night. In France, it would now be early morning… She sighed. It still felt weird to live through the same evening twice, even though she knew it was merely a time difference convention.

Still wearing her black dress, but with her evening shoes off, Lois stood on tiptoes and reached inside a cupboard. She was pretty sure she had a packet of herbal tea around here… After a few minutes shuffling, her fingers reached the brightly colored metal tin. What did the instructions say? “_A real pleasure to drink with the intense flavor of red berries, this herbal tea contains_…” No, that wasn’t it. “_Pour simmering water, cover and let steep for 5 to 10 minutes_”. Simmering water? Lois frowned. She had an electric kettle somewhere but she had no idea where she had stored it. Just thinking about it made her head ache. Would replacing ground coffee with herbal tea do?

A few minutes later, Lois concluded that it really wouldn’t, and poured a second cup of red colored liquid into her sink. She would have to do without her hot drink, she thought with aggravation.

_How did Clark do it? It seemed so easy when he did_. The thought flitted through her mind before she pushed it away. She would not think about Clark. Why wouldn’t her mind replay instead the good parts of her evening in Paris? _La Tour d’Argent_ had been a delight: the view from the oblong room on the Notre-Dame Cathedral had been magnificent, little dots of lights scattered over the night, rivaling in brightness with the stars.

The floor felt suddenly cold beneath Lois’s stockinged feet.

She remembered how she had averted her eyes from Lex’s [pressed duck](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pressed_duck), and declined to taste this treat even if it were one of the restaurant’s gourmet dishes. Yet her fish and the chocolate-with-something-else desert had been the most fabulous culinary creation she had ever tasted. Would have Clark pushed her so much to taste some duck?

Clark, again! 

She could not rid her mind of his ghost-like presence. He had followed her through all her evening, growing even more palpable when she had met Sandrine. In such a way that Lois had almost expected to see him standing behind her instead of Lex. _But that was ridiculous: how would have Clark joined them? Flying above the Atlantic? _

Meeting with his friend Sandrine had been disconcerting. Lois knew that such an easy-going guy would make friends easily, and that he had travelled a lot. Yet, meeting face to face one of his overseas friends was… weird. It somehow made Clark less… hers. 

_Hers? _ Lois threw back her head so violently with the force of her denial that her neck twanged. _No no no no. Clark wasn’t hers. She had made it abundantly clear during their—err… discussion in the park. _

_Still, Sandrine seemed to take an inordinate interest in Clark’s welfare. Lois’s brow creased suddenly. Wasn’t Sandrine’s boyfriend… fiancé, whatever… jealous? Was it a French thing, or was she reading something more than there really was? _

Groping behind her back, Lois’s fingers reached the zipper in her dress. Disrobing, she pushed Clark’s past, present and future as far away from her mind as her dress from her body.

Tomorrow was another day, and Clark Kent wouldn’t be a part of it; Lex would. A slight shiver ran down her spine. _I’m really tired_, she rationalized, and promptly prepared to go to bed. _Or… is there something else? _ a tiny voice tried to make itself heard in the cacophony of her thoughts.

Sleep silenced them all.

****

***

The first bars of “_Un bel di vedremo_” sung by Raina Kabaivanska slowly invaded Lex’s penthouse. It was now night in Metropolis, its repetition no rare treat for a jet-setter like the owner of the building. Instead, it gave him the faint pleasure to somehow cheat time.

Crooning in time with the diva, Lex opened a small drawer in his desk. In it, sat an engraved box, its lid showing the enameled coat of arms of Ludwig II of Bavaria. Opening the case slowly, Lex chose a long steely pin, disdaining a small ornamented dagger.

“I should have chosen a more appropriate musical atmosphere, don’t you think, my pet?” inquired Lex. “Wagner would have lent so much more sophistication to these proceedings.”

He advanced towards a small container. Inside, somehow sensing danger, large lime-green wings palpitated, the four eyespots drawn on the wings staring blindly at the predator with two-feet lurking above them, steel firmly held. Nevertheless, the gloom of the room led false security to the night butterfly, and it stilled after a while.

“You don’t think at all, that’s the problem…. Or should I say, the point?” Lex whispered.

In the terrarium, the giant Luna Moth’s wing tips, shaped like an ornamental train, laid in magnificent repose.

“No, I shouldn’t. Such a pun is unworthy of me. And of your rare beauty,—”

The steel was raised and lowered again, while in the recording, Madam Butterfly sang: “_He will call, he will call / ‘Little one, dear wife / Blossom of orange’_”; and, in the wink of an eye, faster than the fake eyes on the pinned butterfly’s wings could sparkle, the captive lepidopteran stood transfixed.

“—my dear Lois…”

** _Fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> If you wish to read it, you’ll find the synopsis of Madama Butterfly on [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madama_Butterfly). 
> 
> You will find **excerpts of Robert “Bob” Wilson’s staging of _Madama Butterfly_ in these videos**, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WW-16m_BPvw) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pIuNd8-wmo). However, this particular Paris performance is fictitious: there were ten opera nights in 1994 between 29 September and 22 October at the Paris Opera House _Opéra Bastille_, but they don’t really fit the timing of the first Season…
> 
> Lex’s first words about B. Wilson’s celebrated staging were pinched from an [EuroNews review](http://www.euronews.com/2014/02/20/bob-wilson-s-inspirational-butterfly-in-paris).
> 
> The “**illuminated massive column standing at the center of the Place de la Bastille**” is called the _Colonne de Juillet_ [July Column]. You’ll find an account of it on [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/July_Column). 
> 
> The _**Opéra Bastille**_ was inaugurated on July 13, 1989. Major heads of State (including the President of the United States) attended this concert staged by Bob Wilson. You’ll find a short history of the building and of its management on [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Op%C3%A9ra_Bastille).
> 
> The **director of the Opéra** was then Pierre Bergé (1930-2017) who co-founded the fashion label Yves Saint-Laurent (YSL). He was the life partner of the fashion designer Yves Saint-Laurent (1936-2008) and was also President of the Opéra national de Paris [Paris National Opera] from 1988 to 1994.
> 
> The “**elegant elderly woman, dressed in a stunning pale beige flowing dress**” speaking with Saint-Laurent is supposed to be Claude Pompidou (1912-2007), the widow of the President of France. She was a patron of contemporary art, and promoted French fashion, wearing Dior, Cardin, Courrèges or YSL dresses in official and private outings. She befriended Saint-Laurent. 
> 
> **Raina Kabaivanska** (born in 1934) is a Bulgarian soprano. She was one of the top opera singers in her generation, and is celebrated for her Madama Butterfly impersonations. She still sang the role while in her very mature years, but her very moving artistry was such that she perfectly convened a teenaged heroine. ([Here](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x75z1h), she sings “Un bel di vedremo” (Cio-Cio San explains that Pinkerton will come back to her). Another extract of the opera on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_ku6l-Ungs).)
> 
> **_Don Giovanni_** is an opera composed by Mozart in 1787.  
“_Là ci darem la mano_” is a duet between Don Giovanni and the country girl Zerlina whom he attempts to seduce, offering her marriage. Don Juan intruded during her wedding with Masetto, sent away the groom, and went on proposing to Zerlina—a shrewd social-climber—who hesitates to accept. The giving of one’s hand is a metaphor of the ceremony of marriage. Here is a subtitled version of the duet on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TX6xLxu3heE)  
(In this fic, it’s ironical that Stéphane, who is in earnest, is using Don Juan—the so-called “Trickster of Seville”—to propose to Sandrine, who’s hesitating for very good reasons.)
> 
> Don Giovanni is a quite seductive character, but a violent, cunning and absolutely despicable one. At the beginning of the opera, in the middle of the night, he breaks into Donna Anna’s house, unsuccessfully assaults her then kills (in a duel) her elderly father, Il Commendatore, who intervened. The grieving Donna Anna is obsessed on revenging herself on her masked attacker. Her fiancé Don Ottavio supports her, beings the voice of reason and obedience to Law and customs in the story. He gathers all the evidence against Don Giovanni, but when he comes with the “police” to arrest him, the latter has already been punished by supernatural means: the statue of Il Commendatore has appeared and dragged him physically to Hell. 
> 
> The **Festival International d'Art Lyrique d'Aix-en-Provence** is a famous international opera and classical music festival, founded in 1948 and taking place in the summer.
> 
> _Despite his courtesy, Stéphane didn’t yield an inch_: it's an in-joke, as “_courtois_” means “courteous” in French....


End file.
